Between Love and Duty
by Caina
Summary: Fantasy medieval Japril fic. April is a newly minted spy on her first mission, who becomes the prisoner of Jackson dAvery, the prodigal crown prince. Even though they are enemies, they are drawn to each other. But can Jackson trust April? And will she compromise her duty for love? Can they survive the forces determined to tear them apart? Warning: Mature themes.
1. Caught

**1\. Caught**

Lady duPierce had given her clear instructions. The crossing. The inn. The gate with the wolf-rip in its bars.

April, second-born of the Tom Kepner of Milon had been studying the Arts since she was twelve. She had memorized every step of this mission weeks before she had embarked on her journey. The only way she could have fallen into the ambush that had gathered around her now –

\- was if they had been betrayed.

She stood in the swamp, the hem of her cloak and dress underneath soaked with mud, and tried to look beseechingly at the ring of chain-mailed men leering down at her from atop their horses. Their swords weren't drawn yet. They thought there was no need to.

She had one advantage at least.

"I'm a humble serf, my lords," she said again, the phrase so oft-repeated she half-believed it herself. "Making my way to the capital in hopes for a better life. My father died before I was born. My mother, my only kin, died during the last winter…"

"I'd be inclined to pity your sad little tale," one of the soldiers – knights said – his voice thick with arrogant mockery. He drew his sword and she tensed, ready to strike, but he only used the tip to push her hood back from her head. She snatched at it but it was too late. Her curls fell out, trailing down to her back.

She had dyed the distinctive red the colour of mud, and for many days had kept it in a tight braid under a fishnet. But she had left her last inn in a hurry, already suspecting that she was being followed, and she hadn't had time to tie up her hair.

She should have cut it off.

Lady duPierce had warned her to cut it off.

No ordinary small-folk maid could afford to keep hair this long, this healthy even under the mud.

"My only crime is my vanity…" she started.

"Your only crime is you're a whore," he snarled, jumping off his horse and approaching her, sword still drawn.

A sick sort of relief leaped inside her. Not a betrayal then. Just good old lechery. Plus there was very little improvement in the assumption that the reason for her long hair was because she traded in her beauty. Whoring was a still crime: the hypocritical nobles, who kept mistresses and concubines, policed the smallfolk. Still poor, penniless women were forced into the trade where the risk of being caught could lead to rape, slavery or death.

"I'm a humble serf, my Lord," she whispered almost robotically, as her body tensed in readiness.

He laughed. His gloved hand reached out and even though she ducked, he grabbed a curl of her hair. "Pretty. Even under all the gunk. I'll find out what colour it really is. If it's anything to look at, I might even make you my first concubine." He leered at her. "You should thank me."

He leaned close, his breath of onions washing over her face, and she snapped like a bow.

Her right hand flew out, and he cut it easily. He laughed. "Stupid girl-" he started but his voice broke out into a scream, when her knee went up, landing squarely in his crotch and her other hand twisted the sword from his grip and ran him through.

He fell to his knees, the lifeblood pouring out of him in seconds.

It happened so quickly, the other Knights had no time to react. She had turned on her heel, and was running through the gap between the horses before they realized what was happening. With shouts, they followed, but she was already far, her feet pushing her towards the woods. Their horses couldn't follow her there. With the sword in her hand, and a tall tree to shimmy up, she'd have the advantage against them.

The first tree was just inches from her face, when she screamed. Her scalp felt like if it was being ripped off her skull as a hand fisted in her hair, and lifted her off her feet. Instinctively, her hand dropped the sword as she reached up to grab the grip on her hair.

In seconds, she was staring eyeball to eyeball to an enraged, heavy breathing Knight.

"That was my _brother_ , you _bitch_ ," he snarled, and her heart thumped with fear for the first time since these men had surrounded her. "You should have been _thanking_ him for wanting you. By the time I am _through_ with you, you're going to wish you were _dead_."

April spat in his face.

He snarled and threw her down. Her head collided with the hard ground and she prayed it would kill her, or at least make her pass out long enough for the last moments of her life to be lived in oblivion. But she didn't. Pain wracked through her skull, and down her spine. But she remained conscious, her body shaking with pain.

Blearily, she watched the horses surround her again. The man who had caught her – her victim's _brother_ – must have been the one to dismount first. When she saw him pulling at the top of his breeches as he stalked towards her, she prayed again to pass out.

She didn't.

"Get ready, boys," he snarled to the others. "You're all going to get a turn. Then we're going again. And again. And again. Until this whore is dead."

She tried to kick him, but he grabbed her legs so harshly, she felt bone break.

She screamed.

"We're just getting warmed up, bitch," he yelled as he pinned her with his knees.

She would break his fingers, she told herself. If he touched her smallclothes, she would break the fingers of one of his hands. It would enrage him enough to strike her again, and that would be enough to kill her.

She felt large skirts being lifted and prepared herself to move – when there was a familiar whistle in the air, and her attacker froze.

She twisted her head to see an arrow buried into the ground beside them.

"What the-" he shouted, and got to his feet at once, his sword still drawn. "My Lord!"

There was a sudden, different tension in the air around them. April tried to lift her head to see – she could barely move her neck. She shifted back an inch, and felt something cool at the top of her head. Steel. The sword she had dropped when the knight lifted her by her hair.

As carefully as possible, she started crawling over it.

"My Lord, I can explain…" her would-be rapist was saying. But the rest of his words were lost as he moved away from her. His men still surrounded her though. She could see the hooves of their horses. They had all dismounted. Whether in respect of the new Lord in their midst, or in anticipation of gang-raping her, April didn't know. Or care.

Her upper body was covering the sword. She shifted until she covered it completely. Just the hilt poked out a little from under her blouse. If she ignored her own pain, with a quick twist, it would be in her hands in seconds. In a flick of her wrist, she'd slash her own neck.

Her mission had failed, but there was no way she would let herself die this way. Or worse – be taken alive where she could be tortured into betraying her mistresses.

Her hand closed over the hilt and she mentally steadied herself for what she needed to do …

When there was a sudden rustle around her, and she looked up to see the men amounting their horses. Before she could register what was happening, the knights that had waylaid her had all ridden off.

One turned his head to give her one parting glare over his shoulder. Despite her pain and her predicament, April gave him a long, smug smirk.

"I'd wipe that smile off your face if you know what's good for you," said a cold voice over her head.

She started and shifted her gaze up to the person standing over her. He wore dark clothes, no chain mail or armour of any kind, the only sign of a weapon was the sword that he was sliding back into the scabbard that hung over his back. Under his hood, his face was shadowed and in the early morning light, she couldn't make out his features until he bent to one knee to peer down at her, and she had clear view of his face.

Her heart jumped.

He was … His eyes were the first thing she noticed, the colour of a calm sea, and maybe he was some kind of sorcerer because they drew her in. Time stopped when she stared into those eyes and she felt like if she was falling, falling, falling…

A different kind of fear rose inside her, and she broke their locked gaze in panic.

She was breathing heavily, and it wasn't just from the pain.

"Who are you?" he asked, and was it her imagination but did his voice shake strangely?

"I'm a humble serf, my lord," she whispered, automatically.

He smirked; and that drew her gaze to his lips, to his face. "Most serf lads twice your size can't even lift a sword yet you killed a seasoned Knight by taking his own."

There had been handsome men in duPierce's Court. Men that made the boys she grew up with in Milon look like ill-washed scrufs. But compared to the man looking at her now, none duPierece's lords might as well have been apes.

April swallowed hard. "Thank you for saving my life," she whispered.

"Don't thank me yet, little _serf_ ," he said firmly. "A high-born lady travelling alone across the Kingdoms with no escort, refusing to declare herself before any Lord or Court? A lady who can fight, and kill without compunction? It can only be one are a spy of Margdalena duPierce's Flying Squadron, and you're in the Capital for treason."

Her heart jumped again - this time with fear.

"I'm a humble serf, my Lord..."

He scoffed. His hands were brushing down her skirt, and she felt her face burn with shame at how she must have looked in front of this man. "Can you stand?" One hand, not gloved, his fingers long and callused went around her neck while the other reached around her waist –

-and in her daze, she didn't realize until it was too late and he had yanked the sword from her grip with a grim look on his face.

"Clever," he whispered, his voice even colder than it already was. He raised the sword, examining it in his grip as she looked on in horror. "Magdalena certainly trains her birds well. I should know. She learnt from the best. What was the plan? Run me through the instant I got close enough?" He turned to look at her, and those sea-coloured eyes of his were stormy. "Am I truly rescuing one of Percival's victims or was this whole encounter stage-managed to get me close enough to be assassinated?"

"My Lord," she whispered, frightened. "I swear… I never…"

"Never what? Plotted to come to the Capital and have the Duphont murdered?"

April's eyes widened so much she thought they would bulge out. Was that who he was? Jackson dAvery? Duphont of the Kingdoms? The one who had defied the old King's orders and thrown in his lot in the duGrece's feud? Was this him?

"I would never," she stammered, speaking quickly because those cold, stormy eyes were staring now at the sword in his hand and she knew she had seconds to bargain for her life. "Let us say you are right. Let us say I am indeed a member of the Flying Squadron. My lady duPierce is your own Queen Mother's protégé. Why would she rise against her and use me to murder her son?"

"Because her kinship with Lady Mer is greater than her loyalty to my mother?" he retorted, but his eyes seemed to thaw a little, hopefully because her words were putting doubt to his thoughts.

"Your participation aside, the Crown has stayed out of the feud between Lady Mer and Lady Lex. If we murdered you, that is if for the sake of an argument I am indeed a spy and assassin of Lady Magdalena which I am not. And I promise you, my Lord, that the only way a humble serf like myself even knows of these things is through tavern gossip…"

His mouth twitched ever so slightly.

Emboldened, April went on. "But if Lady Magdalena sent an assassin to murder you, it would be the most fool-hardy thing because all it would ensure is that the Crown chooses Lady Lex's side of this feud, and destroys Lady Mer, and Lady duPierce in one fell swoop. Besides, how could I have planned to meet you here? I did not know your movements. I did not know you would come to my rescue from those men. Do you think I conspired with them to murder their own compatriot? Their own brother? How deeply, and to how many levels could this conspiracy lie?"

It was the wrong thing to say. She saw the suspicion cloud over his face, darker than before. "Like I said, your Lady was trained by the best – my own mother, Catherine deMechini. I put nothing beyond her or her students."

And in one swift movement, his hand clasped over her head and everything went black.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Fantasy medieval Japril fic with lots of familiar faces. If it isn't obvious - Lady Magdalena duPierce is Maggie Pierce. Lady Mer and Lady Lex duGrece are Meredith and Lexie Grey. Ser Percival is Charles Percy. The land is called the Southern Kingdoms. The old King is Harper Avery, but the land is ruled to all intents and purposes by his late son's wife, Queen Catherine deMechini (Catherine Avery). Yes, I took the inspiration of the Flying Squadron from the real-life Catherine de Medici and her network of spies. _


	2. Recovery

**2\. Recovery**

A familiar voice woke April.

But she didn't open her eyes at once, tempering her breathing as she had been thought so that she won't reveal that she was awake until she had some idea of her bearings.

She was lying on a thin bed. A soft breeze touched her skin. Indorrs. An open window. High, by the feel of the cold. The air smelt like herbs. A sick room?

In the faint distant, she thought she could hear metal clashing. A battle? No, there were cheers, too. Sport. Practice, probably, from the lack of horns and trumpets.

"I don't know if you're awake or not, Kepner but if you are, we need to talk before the nurses get here."

That was the voice that woke her and it took a second for April to recognize it. Her eyes flew open to stare into the familiar face of Lady Cristina duBorque, dressed in Healer's robes.

"Milady…" she started, trying to seat but Cristina shushed her and pushed her back.

"It's better if you feign to be worse than you are. And keep your voice down. Walls have ears."

April turned her neck quickly and her eyes did a quick scan of her surroundings. From the other cots, similar to the one she lay on, she realized she was in a sick room. The tapestry on the high narrow windows told her she was in a Lord's castle.

"Where am I?" she whispered.

"Where you're supposed to be. The heart of duGrece's castle. And congratulations because that is the only part of your mission that you achieved. Why were you not at the gate with the wolf-rip?"

Cristina's acerbic tone had always grated on April during her training and it didn't fail to do so now. "I was," she retorted. "You were not there."

"I got there as fast as I could," Cristina said grudgingly. "I had an emergency to tend to. Mer…"

April gasped. "The Duchess? Is she …"

"She lives. So does her baby. But it is delicate. She is delicate. Highborn ladies were not bred to give birth in dungeons."

April gasped, and looked about her frantically. "Can you help me get to her? My instructions…"

"…will need to be modified now. When I was supposed to bring you to the Castle, it was a simple matter to claim you were the Apprentice Healer that had arrived from the Isles. Now that you've had these adventures with Ser Percival. And _dAvery_!"

The memory of stormy eyes assailed April, and she bent her head down so that Cristina's sharp eyes would not see her blush. "So it was him? The Prince?"

"The _Duphont_ ," Cristina snapped. "Who is a great deal sharper than his looks would let you think, and already suspects you. Whatever possessed you to murder Ser Percival?"

April stared. "I should have let him rape me?"

Cristina pursed her lips. With shock, April realized the older woman was actually considering her answer. Then she shrugged. "I suppose not. It would have mentally and emotionally compromised you and you would have been no use to the mission. More so you, Kepner, and your unnatural attachment to your state of chastity. I don't suppose that's changed in the years since?"

April sputtered out a short, hysterical, bubble of laughter.

Lady duBorque, formerly Lady Cristina of House Yang, had once served on the Flying Squadron, both as an agent and as an instructor. Rumour had it that she was the best of them all. Rumours, of course, because membership of the Squadron was secret to all outsiders and even agents were kept in the dark of their fellows's missions. But the story went that during a mission, she met and fell in love with Lord duBorque, and she resigned her commission with Lady deMechini's blessings. Whispers had followed her, of course, but she was also one of the greatest – if not _the_ greatest – Healers in the Land.

That was the reason why she still had her freedom, and her station even though she was bosom friends with Lady Mer, the true Duchess of the duGrece dukedom.

Lady Mer, who had been ousted from her rule by her sister, Lady Lex.

"As it stands, your mission is still salvageable," Cristina continued. "Percival and his Knights think that you are a whore with bloodlust. But rape is punishable by death in the Kingdoms and dAvery made it clear that your actions are in self-defence." She gave April a speculative look, that April tried to return as blankly as possible. "He arrived with you on horseback, shortly after the Percival lot and carried you up the castle in his arms, sending messengers ahead for me. He all but dragged me out of the dungeons to attend to you, although it was obvious at once that your injuries are not severe – a knee that I set and some bruises from your scuffle. You must have left quite an impression on him…"

Despite herself, April felt her face heat up. "H-he…" She cleared her throat. "He accused me of being an assassin…"

Cristina snorted. "It hasn't come to that. Yet," she added ominously.

And now it was April's turn to throw the other woman a sharp glance. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing that should ever concern you if you carry out your mission successfully. Like I said, we've had a set back but we can still recover. I can still claim you as an apprentice. We'll just explain that you were travelling in disguise because you were duped of your fare and had to port earlier and make the rest of the journey on foot." Her lips pressed. "It shouldn't be too hard for you to play the kind of dumb merchant-class girl that would fall into that situation and think that was a good plan."

April glared. "I'll try to do my best."

In a sudden movement, Cristina had leaned over and her fingers were on April's throat, cutting off her hair. "Do more than try, Kepner. Sell this. I do not know what possessed Magdalena to send _you_ of all people on this mission, but so help me, if you cost Mer her last chance to escape this castle with her life…"

April grabbed the wrist that pinned her down, her fingers locking over the fragile bones in a particular way that meant all she needed was to flex her grip and the joint will shatter.

"I am not the little apprentice you saw years ago. I am fully-trained. This is not my first mission. That lecherous Knight was not my first kill. I will not fail."

For a moment, the two women glared at each other, a silent battle raging between them. Then Cristina pushed her weight against April's throat and April's gaze darkened, the alarmed through flashing through her brain: _She is really going to kill me!_

Then Cristina snorted with laughter and leaned back. April let go of the other woman's wrist at once to rub her throat frantically.

"Are you crazy?" she asked hoarsely.

Cristina snorted again. "Let that be one more lesson for you, Kepner. Sometimes the only card you have to play, is the one in your hand right now. Don't always wait for your foe to call your bluff."

"I didn't realize we _were_ foes," April snapped.

"Then understand it now – trust no one here. Not even myself. Most certainly not dAvery." When April sputtered a protest, Cristina overrode her. "Don't bother denying it. I have eyes. One of the few things I've admired about you, Kepner is that you've never been foolish about men before. This is not the time to start."

"I am not starting anything," April insisted.

Cristina gave her one last hard look, then she rose. "Fine. Your knee needs a day's rest then it will be good as new. The scrapes and bruises will heal with time. I need to attend to Mer then I will return to you and we can iron out the details of the plan." She gave April one brisk nod and left.

Leaving April alone with her thoughts. To calm herself, she repeated mentally every step of the mission that lay before her. If Cristina duBorque was correct in believing that they could recover from this setback, then the mission was far from over. April just needed to work on getting healed as quickly as possible, then immerse herself into her assignment and all would be well.

She didn't have time to think about stormy green eyes, or desperately try to recall any memory of being held against a lean body, sharing one saddle as the horse galloped hard beneath them. She certainly shouldn't be imagining herself being carried bride-like in strong arms up the castle steps.

Like Lady duBorque had said, April Kepner had never been foolish about men. This was the deadliest time to start.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! I'm so excited that people like this story. I was afraid that medieval Japril would not be so popular so I wrote the first chapter without much hope to continue. Please keep sending reviews so I'll be encouraged to continue this!

This chapter had no Japril and was mostly setup. Next chapter is going to have some nice Japril interactions.


	3. The New Apprentice

**3\. The New Apprentice**

His squire was startled when the Prince arrived that morning, sooner than he usually did after his morning ride. Jackson ignored the boy's stammering apologies as he jumped off Lucifer and threw the reins at him. As he strode across the grounds, he could hear the boy plaintively pacifying the manic horse.

Jackson smiled rather unkindly. Lucifer did not take kindly to any hands besides his master's – sometimes, not even then. It was unfair to saddle the boy with the horse's care, but Jackson's spirits had been dark of late, and he took his humour where he found it. His smile left his face soon enough, as he trudged across the grounds, his destination the Castle's sick room for the singular purpose of interviewing the woman, thoughts of whom had haunted him for three days now.

It was a morning like this, he had first met April Kepner.

Jackson dAvery had been riding across the countryside, trying to clear his head from the conflicting thoughts and emotions churning through it. It had become a habit of late – preferring a hard day's riding on his aptly named steed, Lucifer, to the exertion of a duel, which had been his former means of relieving pent-up energy in the past.

He refused to heed the little voice in his head that whispered that his new choice of recreation – riding – was tied to a need to escape his responsibilities, his problems – including the ones he had caused.

Few would believe it but the Prince had never intended to get as entangled in the duGrece's civil conflict as he was now. Truth be told, he had never intended to get involved in it at all. But his friendship and loyalty to Marcus had won over common sensibilities, and had drawn him in. And now he was neck deep in it – a fact that Lex never failed to remind him of.

Friendship and loyalty to Marcus. What a jest. With loyal friends like him, Jackson, who had embarked on a year long affair with his wife, Marcus did not need enemies.

It was during one of those hard rides, where Jackson thought of everything and nothing and still found no way out of his predicament that would not cause considerable harm to a dear friend – that he had stumbled across Percival and his gang, waylaying the girl. He had spotted them from the top of a hill, and had ridden as hard as he could to intervene. But in the few minutes it took for him to get there, the 'girl' he was riding to rescue, had murdered one of the Knights with his own weapon.

He had still saved her, but not before exchanging hard words with Ser Charles, the brother of the murdered Knight and hearing the man's own theory that the girl was a whore.

Jackson had rolled his eyes at that. He had always thought that law stupid and hypocritical and more vested in further dehumanizing the women forced into this vice than in protecting the 'innocent men' they 'seduced'.

But murder was a totally different thing.

And it took him mere moments to conclude what the short-sighted, lecherous Knights had failed to realize – this woman was not a whore, but a member of the Flying Squadron.

Everything Jackson had ever been taught told him he should have killed her at once. In battle, you used every advantage that you got. But he knelt to check her hurt and had made the mistaking of looking into those dark eyes, swimming in pain even as she struggled not to show it. Looking at her face, even under the bruises and the mud, he could make out her delicate features.

The sight had done something to him, twisted his heart in a way that had never happened in … in ever.

He should have killed her.

Instead, he merely applied pressure on certain pulses on her head, sending her into unconsciousness, and had taken her to the Castle to be treated. He had some training as a Healer, but he didn't trust himself to discern or manage all her injuries. He had saved her from the worst of Percival's intentions, but she still had injuries from her fight.

All through out the ride to the Castle, he had debated with himself the sensibility of what he was doing. But it was hard, very hard to imagine murdering her, when she felt so light and helpless in his arms, her petite body fitting against him in their shared saddle in a way that sent grudging tremors through his body. Even through the mud, he could already glimpse the strands of red-gold in her hair.

He had delivered her in person to the best healer in duGrece's court. Imagine his surprise when Cristina duBorque, the Castle Healer, declared that she knew this woman. Had been expecting her. She had given her a name – April Kepner of the Western Isles – and declared she was the new Apprentice Healer she had been expecting.

Jackson did not believe a word of it. He trusted his own instincts too well. And even though Lex and Marcus pretended to forget, he still remembered that Cristina duBorque and the imprisoned Mer duGrece had been bosom friends.

Perhaps this woman – this April Kepner – had not come to the duGrece lands for his head. But that didn't mean she wasn't a member of the Flying Squadron on a covert mission. And now, he had brought her into the heart of Marcus's home.

Jackson ignored the bows and curtsies of servants and nobles that came across him, as he cut a path through to the Eastern doors, nearest the winding stairwell, the one closest to the Sick Room. A pair of ladies were descending, and they paused to cursty, their eyelashes fluttering appealingly at him. He deigned to smile at them, and watched them blush invitingly.

They must be new in court, Jackson mused, as he left them whispering behind. Few ladies would dare flirt with him so openly. Not if they wanted to keep their heads safe from Lex.

The train of thoughts caused – illogically, he told himself – an image of April Kepner to suddenly fill his head and he took the rest of the steps three at a time, impatient to resolve the mystery of the woman once and for all.

Alas, as he reached the landing where the Sick Room was located, the Prince would soon find out that his first attempt to interrogate the newest member of the deGrece household and get to the bottom of the conflicting stories explaining her presence was going to prove futile.

Embarrassingly so.

His imperious knock at the door of the Sick Room was greeted by a disgruntled face.

"What do you want, dAvery?"

A passing maid gasped but Jackson was too used to Cristina duBorque's arrogance to even raise an eyebrow.

Instead he moved a step closer to the slightly open door and heaved an impatient sigh when Cristina blocked him firmly.

"You've ignored all my messages."

"My apprentice was healing…" Cristina started.

"Yet I hear she is well. My valet was attended to by her last evening."

Cristina pursed her lips. "We are busy. Now if you don't…"

"Don't make me tarry. I will speak to your newest 'apprentice'," he drawled the word, loading it with scepticism, "whether you will it or not."

"Are you ill, my Prince? Injured or in any way in need of medical attention?"

"No," he said reluctantly.

"Then no, you have no cause to speak to _my_ apprentice." Her voice raised, to cut off his next words. "She is not even a citizen of the Kingdoms and does not answer to you."

" _Everyone_ in this land who wishes to _remain_ in this land answers to me," he pointed out mildly.

"I will bring her to court presently." She glared at him and he merely stared back, an eyebrow rising.

No one observing this conversation would believe that Cristina duBorque had been born of the merchant class, rising to fame and the duGrece's Court because of her extraordinary prowess as a Healer, and her whirlwind romance and wedding to the former great and now-retired Healer, Lord Preston duBorque. Now, Cristina duBorque was famed as the most proficient Healer in the land, perhaps even of all time. But Jackson privately believed that it was not the woman's reputation that gave her liberties – it was her own innate arrogance. Rather than becoming prideful because of her fame, it was the other way around – her fame had caught up with the arrogance she had possessed all along.

Ordinarily, he admired her. She was a wonderful verbal sparring partner.

Not today.

"I will speak to her now," Jackson said simply and he picked the slight woman by her shoulders, ignored her 'ooomph!' of outrage as he deposited her to the side, and walked in.

Behind him, she sputtered with outrage, before she started running to keep up with his long strides.

The Sick Room seemed mostly deserted. Not for long, Jackson mused absent-mindedly. By the time the Knights returned afield this afternoon, the yard would soon be filled with practice duels and this room would soon be inundated with men, young and old, needing stitches from various injuries. Jackson himself, had Healer training. It had come in useful at the battlefield more than once, and he even found he had a flair for it. Sometimes, he stitched his men for the practice. He himself rarely got injured. It had been a long time since anyone else's blade had been skilled enough to touch him.

He scanned the room for a moment before his eyes landed on the scene at the far corner of the room. It took a moment for his brain to register what he was seeing and when he did, the blood rushed to his head, making him slightly faint.

There was a dressing screen at the corner of the room. It was propped next to a window and through the sun's rays, he could see clearly the silhouette of a petite frame, shaped like a hourglass with a mass of thick, curly hair. He could also see clearly that she was in the middle of undressing.

His confident stride through the room stuttered to a halt.

"I told you," Cristina hissed, catching up to him.

"This is large," said a familiar voice from behind the screen as the figure seemed to examine a cloth, clearly oblivious to Jackson's presence in the room, "in a few minutes, I can taken in the hems. Let me try the other ones."

"I… I think I shall come back…" Jackson muttered, taking a step backwards. He really ought to have been _turning_ away, but his feet seemed suddenly ill-shaped, awkward and hard to co-ordinate.

And try as he might to move them, his eyes seemed glued to the scene before him.

"April," Cristina yelped, rather unhelpfully, Jackson thought.

"Cristina?" the voice asked, suddenly wary. "Is everything OK?"

And he was still standing there, staring dumbly, not even aware of Cristina's fists on his elbow, apparently trying to turn him about, when the woman stepped out of the screen half-undressed.

He had a second's glimpse of her – curls the colour of fire, creamy skin, a neck dotted with freckles, a chemise that barely touched the top of her thighs, the material so thin that with the sunlight glowing through her, he could see the shape of her body, even the hues of…

Then she screamed at him, and sent the cloth she held in one hand in his direction, and suddenly, he could move, spinning around on his heel.

"Rascal! Pervert! Serpent spawn! What is the meaning of…?"

"Apologies!" he yelled, walking quickly to the door.

"That's the Lord Duphont," Cristina hissed at the other woman.

"And a Peeping Tom to boot!" April Kepner screeched back.

"I will return when you are calmer…" And despite the circumstances, he couldn't help adding as he reached the door, "and wearing more clothes."

She screeched again as the door slammed behind his back. He swore he heard something distinctly heavy land on it as he hurriedly descended the steps.

* * *

When next he saw her, she was not only properly gowned in Healer scrubs, she was actually doing Healer work, too.

He paused at the now open door of the Sick Room to stare into the pandemonium inside. As he predicted, many Knights who had been injured practising now filled the room, and the Healers fluttered busily from one to another. A few men even stood against the walls, waiting their turn.

He spotted April Kepner easily – her red hair was as good as any beacon. She was busy stitching up the face of a Knight, his sworn brother Ser Alex duCaref.

The moment his eyes landed on her, she raised her head, and for a second, their gazes locked.

He felt his breath catch.

"Easy there, Red," Alex hissed and he took a swig of the bottle by his side. "Don't ruin this pretty face."

"My apologies, my Lord," April Kepner murmured softly, turning back to her work, but not before she shot Jackson a glare from under her thick lashes.

duCaref looked up to see the Prince and grimaced. "It seems that his Royal Princeliness discomfits Healer Kepner? Mind stepping out, mate? You're distracting my Healer." Alex leered at the woman. "My rather good-looking Healer. Ouch!" he yelled when she pulled on the thread too tightly. "Watch it."

"My apologies, my Lord," she muttered again and Jackson coughed to hide a snigger.

duCaref glared at both of them in turn. "Hey, Lady duBorque, can't you do this? Your new apprentice might look like a red-headed angel, but she has the hands of a demon."

"Bit busy at the moment, duCaref," Cristina snapped from where she was mending the stomach wound of another Knight. "Pray be less an infant."

"Well, I never…" duCaref sputtered.

"There it is, Ser, it is done," April Kepner said, stepping back.

Alex at once asked for a mirror and examined his face carefully. "Why, not bad at all," he said grudgingly.

Jackson agreed. So at least, that gave credit to the 'Apprentice Healer' tale. Although, that meant nothing. Anyone with sufficient intelligence could learn basic healer skills – and of course, a member of the Flying Squadron would have more than sufficient intelligence.

He eyed her as she shifted to the side, studiously ignoring him as she washed the tools she used on Alex duCaref. He didn't fail to notice the way Alex's eyes also followed her – or rather her romp.

Jackson walked purposely to his friend and grabbed his arm. "Back to the training grounds with you," he commanded.

"I'm injured!" Alex exclaimed, still watching the red-head.

"You don't use your face to wield your sword. If your vanity had only let you put on your helmet, you won't have been cut in the first place."

"Then who will the watching ladies of court know to swoon over when I beat my foes?" Alex parried.

"I'll be sure to tell Isobel that," Jackson retorted, referring to his friend's wife.

Alex made a face, but hopped off his stool. You would never know to hear him talk, but the Knight was devoted to his wife.

"Thanks, Red," he said to April Kepner.

She turned to him and smiled.

Jackson felt his brain lighten a little at that smile. It was the first one he had seen on her, and it transformed her face, already pretty, already striking, to something almost ethereal. For a long moment, he all but gaped at her.

Then he felt an irrational stab of anger at his friend – because that smile had been directed at Alex, not him – and his gape turned into a scowl.

He shoved past Alex to take the stool, and Alex stumbled slightly, surprised.

"Careful, mate," he exclaimed, rubbing his shoulder. He stared down at Jackson in surprise. "What are you doing?"

April Kepner stared, too. Her smile had vanished, and now she was all but glaring at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

Funnily, Jackson preferred that angry look. The smile had all but thrown him off balance. The angry look, amused him. He could deal with her angry.

He smirked at her, then rolled back his right sleeve. He lifted the makeshift bandage he had put on the field and he watched with no small satisfaction as her eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the deep gash that ran from his wrist to his elbow.

Alex hissed sharply. "That's nasty. Who dared?"

Jackson shrugged. "Who won't? It was a practice duel after all."

"Mate, you're the Prince," Alex said blandly.

"Who duels six to one to get anything approaching an appropriate exercise. One of those six was bound to get a cut in."

Alex snorted in clear dissatisfaction. "Humour me then, and answer the question. Who dared?"

Jackson sighed – then hissed as April Kepner poured antiseptic on his wound.

"Sorry," she whispered softly and his gaze – attention – was caught by the sincere sympathy in her voice. He stared into her face, and was surprised to see that where had half-expected some smugness, it was kindness that she looked back at him with.

She smiled a little at him, and bent her head over his arm, her hands gentle as she dabbed at the wound, cleaning it.

Everywhere her fingers touched him, he felt sharp, shooting pain. He didn't think it was all from the antiseptic.

For the second time, he felt his brain lightening.

A prod on his shoulder made his look up in surprise.

Alex duCaref was staring at him with a look that was a cross between impatience and amusement.

"Should the good Healer also check your ears?" he smirked. "Because I have trying to get your attention for a while now?"

"Oh… ah…" Jackson struggled, he truly did, but he knew his face was darkening with a blush. He checked from the corner of his eyes and was slightly relieved to see that April Kepner was not looking at him at the moment, still bent over her work. "Ah… what was it? Y… yes, you can go ahead and continue practising."

Alex rolled his eyes. "You already said that. I'm still waiting to hear who stabbed you?"

"Who got lucky," Jackson corrected. "And why should I tell you? So you can harangue apparently the only man in court who is willing to challenge me in fencing?"

Alex's face turned mutinous and Jackson caved with a sigh. "Fine. It was Charles."

" _Percival?"_

Jackson didn't answer at once. His attention was back at April Kepner – at the way, her hands had flinched over his arm. She didn't raise her head, though, but he knew she was paying close attention to their conversation.

"Yes, Percival."

"This is vengeance for his brother. For saving _her_ ," Alex said grimly.

Jackson shrugged, still staring down at April Kepner's head. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"You have to be careful. Charles is a fool. Foolish enough to actually think he can harm you and get away with it. He won't. But he might still be able to harm you first."

"Not with you protecting me, he won't," Jackson quipped.

Alex heaved a loud sigh. He glanced over at April Kepner who had finished cleaning the wound and was now threading a needle. "No offence to Healer Red. She stitched me up prettily enough and it's a comfort to see something other than duBorque's dour face or duMalle's harried face in this Sick Room. But if I had a choice between saving her life or endangering your own, I …"

"…and it was not up to you, my brother," Jackson hissed, steel in his voice. "You may now return to the training grounds."

It was not a request. Alex's face closed with hurt anger. "As my Prince wishes," he snapped.

He threw April one last suspicious glance, then he turned on his heel and left.

Jackson turned to see April Kepner watching him, her eyes wide and unreadable.

"By my reckoning, this work will take some time. Sufficient time for me to talk at some length with you. Now that you're properly attired, too. " His eyes raked her form, from the tops of her mass of curls down her shapely body, barely hidden beneath the Healer robes she wore, to the tips of her dark boots, then back again to her face.

He noted smugly that she was blushing profusely.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:** Thanks for the reviews everyone! Please keep sending them so I'll know people are reading this. The more reviews this story gets, the faster it's updated. :) _


	4. Predator vs Prey

**4\. Predator vs Prey**

As she had hastily put back on her garments, April had raged for almost half an hour after the Prince left that morning, too angered by what happened to be rational. After futilely trying and failing to talk her down, Cristina had let her anger run its course.

Then it did, leaving April feeling hollow and appalled at her own behavior.

"This is why I will never understand Magdalene sending you of all possible options," Cristina had hissed when April tried to mumble apologies. "Your maidenhood might imbue you with an extraordinary degree of common sense where men are concerned, and arguably supernatural talents..."

"What?" sputtered April, not sure if Cristina was mocking her or in earnest.

"… but it also makes you oversensitive and irrational." Cristina shook her head. "You do realize that that was the DuPhont that you were raging at like a fishwife?"

April sighed. "I will apologize to him at first opportunity," she muttered. It was ridiculous that _she_ was being made to apologize to the manfor his own ill manners, but that was the way of things.

Cristina rolled her eyes. "Yes, that would make things better." For a long moment, she just stared at April, distaste written all over her posture, then she tut-tutted. "Perhaps there is some gain in this. If I know anything about the Prince – and I know everything about everything – then it would be a while before he returns here, demanding to see you. You, in turn, shall avoid him. Keep your movements to this part of the castle, no further than the Sick Room or your adjoining dorm. I shall ponder how best to go forward with this."

"I have already been confined," April murmured with mild defiance, "since you have forbidden me from meeting with Lady Mer."

Cristina gave her a side-eyed glare at that, but said nothing.

April had every intention of obeying the Healer's instructions of remaining in the Sick Room area, and avoiding the Prince at all costs. But avoiding him physically was one thing. Avoiding him mentally was another. Despite her best efforts, her mind persistently strayed to thoughts of him. She recalled the fleeting glimpse of his shocked gaze that morning, before he all but ran out of the room. What had had him looking so dazed? Was the sight of her really so awful? She imagined that he was used to the display of beautiful women in various stages of undress. Had she really fallen so short in his standards?

Then she shook off her foolish musings. She was grateful to the goddess for her strong, healthy, functional body. There were many that could not boast of such. It was no concern of hers if Jackson dAvery thought her unattractive. And she really ought not to be thinking of the man, at all.

So she resolved not to spare the man another thought unless she had to.

But what was she to do when the man presented himself to her for attention?

* * *

The influx of Knights and squires to the sick room for treatment had been a welcome break to an another monotonous day. Ordinarily, April would have been pleased to be useful, and at the opportunity to practice her skills. But she was afeared that the Knights would include those that attacked her that first morning.

But if they were, they probably did not recognize her out of her mud-dyed hair and dowdy, smallfolk clothes. In pristine Healer's robes, and strands of clean, bright red hair peeking out of the Healer's cap, she was unrecognizable as the woman they had accused of being a whore.

There had been stares, still. But merely stares of curiosity and a few of appraisal. It was vain but April felt gratified that some seemed to appreciate her appearance, even if the Prince did not.

Ser Alex duCaref had been the fifth man she had stitched that afternoon; and his flirtation bothered on outrageous. She didn't know what to make of him. He kept vacillating between being charming and being insolent. She already knew of him, of course. He was a sworn brother to Prince Jackson, the Duphont's personal guard. But she had been surprised at the rapport between the two men.

The Duphont's presence had _not_ been expected – or welcomed. He was one of the best swordsmen in the Kingdoms – some even argued the utmost best. He was the last person she expected to see step into the Sick Room after an few hours of training, demanding treatment.

But he did. And April felt his presence, before her eyes spotted him, raising her head at an uncanny instinct to stare into those storm-colored eyes from across the room.

In the morning, she had been enraged at the sight of him, and her anger had dulled the rest of her intense reaction. But now… He was still wearing his training clothes, which were not unlike the garb he had worn the first time she saw him – black and dark brown cotton and leather, sewn well to conform to his figure.

It suited him. It suited him immensely.

Something like to a charge of lightning seemed to strike the space between them, and April – for the first time in ages – pulled hard on the thread she was using to sew up a patient's injury. It was Alex's grimace of pain that pulled her back to her senses. She apologized, and tried to concentrate on her work. But it was all she could do not to fumble again. The Prince's presence had thrown her completely.

Then she was done with duCaref and the Prince was shoving his sworn brother off the stool to position himself for her attention. April wondered despairingly, as she busied herself cleaning up after her work on duCaref, if Jackson dAvery was truly injured or was simply here to interrogate her. If that was the case, she decided sternly as she turned to him, she would make Cristina send him away. He might be Prince, but it was his own men that needed treatment. Surely, he would not hamper her work -

Then he bared his arm, and she gasped at the sight of the gash that ran from wrist to elbow.

Her breath seized in her throats. She was grateful that Duphont and the Knight were speaking, distracted from her because she needed a moment to contain herself before she could gather the materials she needed. Even then, her heart twisted under her ribs as she treated him, and she felt his flinch at the dab of antiseptic acutely.

But aside from that first flinch, he was a good patient, holding his arm steady as she knitted skin and muscle together, none of the usual shuddering that duCaref or any of the other Knights had displayed. There was a bottle of spirit by the tray, something that a few other Knights had needed to withstand the pain of the needle. But the Prince didn't even acknowledge it.

So she knitted, and she listened as he spoke with duCaref. A very interesting conversation, not least because it pertained to her.

For the first time, April realized just how much Jackson dAvery had risked by protecting her that day. There were many lesser nobles who would not have bothered. Regardless of whether they believed her innocence or not, the fact that she had murdered a sworn Knight was enough cause to let her be murdered – at the very least.

By the menacing glare Alex duCaref shot her before he left, April knew that _he_ at least felt that her life had not been worth the trouble.

She wondered for how long her anonymity would remain with the rest of the Knights. Should she fear retaliation from the others? Alex duCaref apparently knew her identity, from the Prince's confidence. Will he continue to keep that confidence or would he 'accidentally' break it, in the hope that Ser Percival would harm her, and satiate his vengeance on her and not the Prince? As a member of the Flying Squadron, called upon many times to defend her Mistress with her body and her mind, April understood perfectly the workings of a mind like duCaref. Exposing her would be his most logical next step.

Unless he feared risking his Prince's anger or disfavour enough to hold his tongue?

Most intriguing was why the Prince was endangering himself on her behalf? It made little sense to April.

She turned to gaze at the Prince, to try to decipher the workings of the man's mind through his face, and was startled to see him already staring at her.

"By my reckoning, this work will take some time. Sufficient time for me to talk at some length with you. Now that you're properly attired, too," he drawled, his voice mocking.

A-ha. The verbal duel that she and Cristina had done their best to postpone was about to commence.

Well, she had had fair warning and more than enough time to prepare her mental defences for it.

She eyed him, wary but ready.

She was not ready for the way he gazed back at her. His blue-green eyes darkening, not so much like a raging sea, but undecided waters, as he took a scrutinizing, almost insolent perusal of her face. Then his gaze bent downwards, as he slowly examined her from her face, down her chest – lingering there for so long she fought against the instinct to cover herself with her arms – then down her waist, to her legs, and then just as slowly back to her face.

He was smirking by the time he was done, his sharp gaze missing nothing – not the way her chest was heaving or the way the blood had suffused her face. She felt almost light-headed, as if she was drowning in those tempestuous eyes.

"Healer Kepner, are you wool-gathering?"

Healer duBorque's sharp words startled April badly. With a shock, she realized she had stopped stitching, her fingers holding the needle and thread loosely while her hands brushed against Jackson dAvery's warm skin.

"I… I..." she stammered, as she quickly started stitching again.

"Leave," Cristina said sharply, her eyes boring into April's face as she reached for the needle,"and see to the other Knights. I will not have you marring the Prince."

April knew that she should have been grateful and eager to seize the opportunity to escape the Prince. So no one was more surprised than herself that what she felt at that moment, staring wordlessly into Cristina's stern face was resentment.

Before she could process her thoughts or step aside, the Prince's free hand clasped around both her own.

"She will do no such thing," the he declared. "She will finish what she started. Busy yourself elsewhere, Cristina."

"I will not permit an apprentice to attend to the Duphont of the Kingdoms in my Sick Room!" Cristina declared, outraged.

"I do not care what you permit, Cristina," he said curtly, his words dismissive. "Healer Kepner, carry on."

Cristina pressed her lips firmly. Then she huffed. "Do not come a-crying to me if she mars that perfect skin." With one last indecipherable look at April, she turned on her heel and stormed away, boots clacking noisily across the room. Whether it was play-acting or genuine pique at being turned down, April could not for the life of her tell.

April had said nothing all through out. She had not wanted to leave the Prince's side. And she was grateful that Cristina had left.

Her thoughts were both extremely simple – and extremely confusing.

And stupid.

And dangerous.

He had freed her hands. So she bent her head down, refusing even to look him in the eye and concentrated on making her needlework as flawless as possible. She was tense, waiting for his verbal interrogation to start but for a long moment, he said nothing. Yet she could feel his steady, burning gaze on her bowed head through out. It caused an unfamiliar discomfort in her belly.

She was half-way done when he finally spoke.

"Your handicraft is flawless," he drawled in his soft, low-timbered voice.

It made a small shiver run up her spine; but she didn't dwell on that – dwelling instead on the faint note of surprise in his voice.

"You seem surprised, my Prince," she said, her voice low and meek-sounding, even as she inwardly seethed. If he had thought her incompetent why had he not gone to Cristina?

He scoffed, and she knew that he was aware of the barb. "Your own Master Healer wasn't so confident in your skills."

Even now April could feel Cristina's sharp eyes in her direction, watching them carefully.

"Healer duBorque just wished to give you the best care."

"Your care is excellent."

"It's an honor to serve you, my Lord."

"You know, it is the most amazing thing. Your words are polite, diffident even, but there is something in your tone… It almost sounds like mockery. Are you teasing me, Healer Kepner?"

She did glance up at him then, peered at him through her thick lashes. "I have no idea what you mean, my Prince."

He laughed then. And it startled her. His face seemed to default to grave, his eyes usually stern or stormy. But with laughter, his face brightened, became younger, and his eyes lit up like a clear sky.

For a moment she gazed at him, feeling her heart constrict inexplicably. Then she quickly got hold of herself and bent over her stitches again.

"Don't you?" he asked, when he had stopped laughing. "You intrigue me in so many ways, Healer Kepner. Not least because I had no idea you were a healer when I first came upon you. Pray tell, do Healers usually travel disguised as smallfolk?"

"Sometimes we do," April said honestly. "In times of war, and famine. Our services are always in demand, but we can also be harmed by those who wish to use us as pawns. We are not noblemen, we do not command sworn brothers. So we protect ourselves as best we can."

"Only there is no famine," he corrected. "And the small civil crisis in these parts ended long ago."

 _Small civil crisis,_ April mused. _Is that would he chooses to call it? A sister usurping her elder's right to rule, and the Duphont choosing to side with the offender?_

But all she said was, "well, one can never take too much care. I am, after all, a stranger to the Kingdoms."

"You hail from the Isles, I have been told. And I daresay you have the look of it." And to her surprise, he used his free hand to catch a curl of her red hair, peeking out from her Healer's cap.

His warm fingers brushed against her forehead and a peculiar sensation shot out from the contact. April froze, her fingers clenching on her needle.

"Hair like flames," he whispered, his voice so low, she ought not to have heard it. But she did. It seemed to reverberate through every bone in her spine.

"But I know that there are some in the West that originally hailed from the Isles and still bear the look,"he said, and now his voice was normal.

And his eyes were hard with skepticism.

It broke the spell. And she tore her eyes from his confusing visage and back to her work. April had never been so grateful to be considered as a fabricator.

"I do not know what my Prince wishes to hear from my humble self," she muttered, her fingers now all but flying with needle and thread. She was determined to end this ordeal soon.

"The truth."

"You have had it, and chosen not to give credit to it."

"By your own admission, you have already told me one falsehood. Forgive me for not readily taking your tale at your word."

"You have the word of the Master Healer of this Castle," April retorted, only just managing to keep her voice smooth and without ire. What was it about this man that sent her feelings into a tailspin? One moment, he was embarrassing her. The next he was enraging her. The next he was … confusing her.

"Yes, I do, don't I? The word of Healer duBorque, the most renowned of her calling. It was a great fortune to the Duchess of this abode that the Healer accepted to be a member of this Court. One would have thought that her old friendship with Lady Mer would have given Cristina cause to take an appointment elsewhere. Likewise, one would have thought that a young Apprentice from the Isles like yourself would have chosen to reside somewhere without a recent history of strife."

The words were mild enough but she could feel his gaze hard on her head. This time, they felt like a pair of tridents, boring into her head for secrets.

April swallowed hard against the sudden lump of fear in her throat.

"As my Prince said shortly before, the conflict in this parts ended a while ago," she said smoothly. She ignored his rumbling chuckle at that, and went on. "And the House duBorque has been part of the duGrece dukedom for generations. I doubt that Healer Cristina had much choice about accepting the Duchess's appointment."

"A tale that I have always found very convenient," he drawled.

When April said nothing to that, he prodded. "So you arrived a few days ago, right? Did you embark from the Estle Port or the Suti Port?"

He was wily, this Prince. Much too intelligent for a man of his upbringing and advantages. But April had been prepared for this kind of examination. She answered his questions with the right balance of readiness and pique at the questioning, giving him the kind of responses that a young woman who had spent half her life studying the rigorous arts of Healing on the Isles would know. Lady Magdalene had spent long hours personally examining and cross-examining April to ensure that her story was without flaws. Between the knowledge that the Spymistress had provided April to study, and her own knowledge of the Isles from her few times visiting her distant cousins, she knew that there was no test that Jackson dAvery would give her that she would be unable to pass.

Their conversation wound down as she knotted the last stitch. And she chanced to glance at his face, just before she cut the thread, and smiled inwardly at the look of immense dissatisfaction he showed.

 _You are a wily one, my Prince_ , she thought to herself, _but I am your match._

She cleaned off a few drops of blood, her fingers slightly clumsy as they passed the cloth over his skin – bronze and firm, lined with veins and stretched taut over strong muscles that flexed under her touch.

Then it was over, and she stepped back with a deliberate curtsey, then turned to the act of tidying up her work for her next patient.

"It is flawless. Might not even leave a scar," he murmured as he rolled his sleeve back. "I doubt that Healer Cristina herself could have done better."

"You flatter me, my Prince," April murmured but she couldn't help a little pique of pride rise within her. She glanced up to catch Cristina's gaze from across the room. She bit back a smile at the look of clear disgruntlement on the older woman's face.

"Don't be," he said mildly. And there was something in it – that mild voice – that made April's neck prickle with danger and she turned to look at him, wary.

"Your skill with the needle is remarkable, yes. But surprisingly so. After all, you are still an Apprentice?"

A dozen responses rushed to her lips – Healer duBorque _is an inspired tutor; I had the best Masters in the Isles; I have been told that I am particularly skilled in knitting flesh, but not extraordinary in the other aspects of Healing; I was a talented embroider as a child, my mother wept when I told her I would not take the trade._

But one look at the mocking light in those eyes – a tricky wave, waiting for her to turn the wrong course, and be overwhelmed – held her tongue.

He rose to his feet, and gave her a deep bow. "I believe you and I will be seeing more of each other, Healer Kepner."

It was a threat.

He wound through the Sick room, replying the hails of his men with a casual wave. He doffed an imaginary cap to Healer Cristina's direction before he passed through the door. Just before he stepped out of sight, he turned to give April a last, unreadable look. Then he was gone.

Leaving April with her heart in her throat.

 _Not wily. Dangerous. A predator who would never give up the hunt._

 _And he has set his sights on me as his prey._

Heaven help them all.

* * *

A/N: Hi readers! So I have a tons of wips and so little personal time. So I've decided that I'll post chapters after I get a certain number of reviews (not saying how much but I'll know when I get it) on the last update, because I don't want to keep writing this one if I don't feel enough people are reading. :D For everyone who's reviewed so far, thanks a lot! For the rest of you (you know who you are), now's your chance. ;)


	5. Return of the Pretender

**5\. Return of the Pretender**

It was a damp, unduly warm morn and April would have much liked to have spent it indoors. There was a child of one of the maids who was a-sick with the summer fever, and required close watching. Healer Cristiana generally left what she termed the "less exotic" ailments for April to deal with. Cristiana was happiest when she was cutting into or patching up human flesh. Fevers and flus and secretions bored her.

In the days past, April had spent more time as a healer than as a spy. It had irked her considerably – it still did – but as Cristiana constantly reminded her, it was the best way to keep the Duphont's suspicions at bay.

April could have told her not to bother. The man was as tenacious as a hawk. Every few days, he would pass by the sick bay and exchange a few words with either Cristiana or one of his men – almost every day an injury from practice duelling would bring a fallen Knight to the sickbay. The moment he stepped into the sickbay, Healer Cristiana would find some chore for April to do out of it – fetch medicine from the store-room, a poultice from the dorms, herbs from the gardens – and detain the Prince with some urgent question. April would flee, somewhat gladly, somewhat bereftly, but everytime she'd feel his eyes heavy on her back.

She doubted that he was deceived by hers and Cristiana's insistence that April was nothing more than a Healer Apprentice from the Isles. Rather than bother with the precarious facade, April would have preferred to increase her efforts to execute her mission. But Cristiana would not be dissauded. She was stubborn to the point of illogicality.

So that was how it came about that Lady Lex, the self-appointed Duchess of duGrece returned to court with her full entourage and April still remained, no nearer to rescuing Lady Mer, the true Duchess than April was when she first arrived on these lands.

Rather than being far away from duGrece, preferably in duPierre, acting openly as sworn protector to Lady Mer, and preparing for her battle to reclaim her home and title – April stood amongst the rest of the pretender's receiving party at the gates of the castle, clad in Apprentice gowns, her head bowed and meek as the entourage reached the gates. In order of importance, the courtiers descended from their carriages.

She was a mere Apprentice, and stood near the back, just a line before the Servants. Ahead, she could spot the back of Cristiana's head, and even from this view, April could tell that the older woman was impatient with all the ceremony. At the very front of the welcoming crowd stood the Duphont himself, Prince Jackson clad in his usual black clothes – did the man swear a vow never to don colours? - standing side by side with the Duke Consort, Marcus duLoane.

April's heart seemed to jump everytime she looked his way. Which was all the time.

It was impossible for Jackson dAvery to be within eyesight and not to command attention. It wasn't just that he was Prince. For he would catch the eyes of those who did not know him. It wasn't even just his beauty. Though it was considerable. The man's face and form must have been fashioned on a day that the goddess had been filled with particular joy, and she chose to bequeath a mere mortal with a flawless perfection reserved for her heavenly children. No, it was not even that.

It was his demeanor. At once lazy and aloof, at the same time alert, arresting, compelling. It was like there was a magnet residing inside the man, and it drew the attention of every one around him. He couldn't fade into the crowd.

At least, that was what April told herself as her eyes laid heavy on his back for long moments, her face flushed. Surely, she was not the only one so affected by his presence? She asked wonderingly. But she finally dragged her gaze away from him to study the man beside him.

Marcus duLoane had once been a very handsome man, almost as compelling and dynamic a personality as could be found in the entire Kingdoms. But that was before the accident that had almost taken his life. Now he was a pale shadow of a man, frail, bony, and lame; he was leaning as much on his companion as he was on his stick. Few would have dared to use the DuPhont as a walking stick, but Marcus duLoane dared. He and Jackson dAvery were as close as it was possible for two people who were neither kin nor lovers, to be. Jackson had fostered in the duWebb lands, as was customary for all young royals, and been squire to then Knight Marcus duLoane for many years. After his Knighthood, they had become companions in the field, and the various Knightsguards they had served in. Long after the tragedy that had forced Jackson to return to the Crown Lands and take the title of Crown Prince, they still remained close companions.

And as she watched them now, with Marcus resting half his weight on the younger man and Jackson bearing it, not just gracefully, but with the discreetness of someone who did not wish to shame his former mentor – April was certain beyond doubt that the two men were still as close as possible.

So it was a marvel to her – as it undoubtedly was to so many others – how Jackson could betray Marcus by sleeping with his wife.

For everyone knew how Marcus had got the injury that almost killed him. Everyone could know, just by looking at the broken man he was now, the extent of his devotion to his young bride.

April stared from one to the other, wondering. And wondering, too, why all this intrigued her now in a way it never did when Magdalene was teaching her the dynamics of the duGrece's court.

"What does it matter who is sleeping with whom or who is betraying whom?" April had asked impatiently as Magdalena quizzed her to no end on what April derided as 'bedroom politics'. "How will that help me rescue your sister?"

"Do not be dismissive, young woman. What you call 'bedroom politics' is atimes more important than 'real politics'. There are two primary motivators in this world – gold and sex. Give both their due credit and you will go far."

April had blushed hard at Magdalena's crudeness. She had tried to hide it, but the older woman's sharp eyes spotted it.

"You still carry the affliction of maidenhood?"

"I… I do not..."

"Don't bother denying it, Kepner. It is writ all over your face." Magdalena sighed. "I envy you sometimes, April. And at times, I fear for you."

"Fear for me?"

"You might have done what few women – nay, what few people – have done outside taking holy vows, and that is to suppress your baser instincts, April Kepner. But do not be deceived – they are there, dormant but powerful. Be wary that when you unleash them, they do not overwhelm you."

Now, in the hot day, April's eyes drew back to Jackson dAvery, and she felt a chill work down her spine.

Suddenly, like Cristiana, she was impatient for this ceremony to be over.

And finally, it was. The last carriage pulled up, and she knew from the golden banners that this would carry the Duchess pretender.

A trio of handmaidens stepped out first. Then the Duchess's two ladies-in-waiting followed – Isabella duCaref, and Ried duLadams. April watched them closely, noticing the way Isabella's eyes swept the crowd for her husband, who stood a few steps to the side and behind the Prince; and the way Ried duLadams swept the welcoming Knights in turn, her eyes shining like a child in a toy shop.

As the ladies disembarked, Marcus and Jackson drew nearer to the carriage. April noticed how Ried's eyes swept up and down the length of Jackson, before looking away guiltily – and felt equal parts irritation and amusement. Then the Duchess herself was stepping out, one elegant foot after the other, and April's eyes were on her.

She was beautiful, April thought with a surprising despair. Lex duGrece was about April's own age, with a sweep of long black hair, so sleek and shiny that it reflected light. Her face was pale, her cheeks and lips red. She was probably the most beautiful woman April had ever seen.

April had never hated anyone more in her entire life.

The Duchess took Marcus's hand and accepted his shaky, low bow, before allowing him to draw him into an embrace.

Over her husband's shoulder, in plain, insolent sight of the welcoming crowd, the Duchess's eyes tried to catch the Prince's.

He did not hold her gaze, April noticed, feeling a strange kind of triumph at this.

"Welcome home, my darling," Marcus said. His voice startled April. It was strong, clear and carrying – incongruous to the frail body it came from.

"Thank you, my husband," she replied, her voice light and bright as the smile that made her look even more beautiful.

"How is my good sister and her children?"

"They are well. They sent their love and presents."

He released her then, and took her hand so that she could face her court. As one, they all dropped into deep bows and curtsies, April included. Then they stood and cheered.

The Duchess laughed, clapping her hands together like a delighted child. Her ladies laughed too.

"Oh, had I known I would get such a welcome, I would have made my return sooner!" she said.

She curled her hand around her husband's elbow, then in a cunningly casual move, turned to do the same with Jackson dAvery..

"My Prince," she said, and the sweet, childish voice she had been using so far changed. It was barely perceptible. April was certain that few would be able to even describe the change or positively claim that there had been one. But it was there. "It is good of you to welcome me. I trust you have been treated well in my absence."

"Splendidly, Duchess," he replied, his face and voice expressionless.

She smiled at him, and stared walking, leading both men along her. "You must tell me all about it, then. You know how much I feared leaving you behind to fend in this Castle without a lady to over-see things."

The crowd parted before her as she walked through to the castle, with her husband and her lover by her sides.

Later, in her painstakingly encrypted journal, April would write this: 'her voice had a childish affectation that sounded so insincere that it was a wonder that anyone was deceived by it; but I could tell from the reaction of the Duke Consort and those around her that they were; they truly believed her to be this innocent, sweet child that she masqueraded as. But when she faced Jackson, her facade slipped a little. There was an element of … oh, this is hard to describe. But by my thinking, I would call it hunger. Or sin. Or both. It was there in her eyes, and in her voice how much she desired him. Her fingers dug into his elbow like the claws of a panther would surely dig into its prey.'

April carefully watched the trio as they entered the castle. She was particularly staring hard at Jackson dAvery, trying to read from his face or form his feelings and reaction towards his lover's return. But the man was a complete cipher. Joy? Guilt? Sorrow? Regret? Lust?

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing that April could glean.

Then as if he could feel her questioning gaze, he turned back to look at her. At April.

Her breath stopped in her throat.

There was no question where he was looking. It was a mere second. Not enough, April prayed later, for anyone to think anything more than that the Prince had casually glanced over his shoulder as he walked away. But enough for April to feel the weight of that gaze, stormy, undecipherable but undeniably intense as it had smote her face.

His gaze told her something. Or asked something of her. But for the life of her, April did not know which or what. While his previous expression had been unreadable in its blankness, this look was unreadable in its intensity.

It was a mere second. Then his gaze turned blank again, just as he turned to look forward, his head bowed attentively towards the Duchess's voice.

April let out the breath she hadn't even realized she was holding. She was light-headed from it, from the intensity of it all. And, as the trio disappeared into the dark hallways of the Castle, April looked around her, seeking relief from the storm of emotions that besieged her…

… and her heart jumped at the sight of a pair of bright green eyes staring avidly at her.

As was customary, the Duchess's ladies had paused to speak to the heads of the household. For it was they, not the Duchess, that ran the affairs of the Castle. Ser Caref had drifted to his wife's side and while the two said not a word to each other, April could see from the way their hands had drifted together that there was a great deal of affection between them.

But that she observed almost absent-mindedly, a thought she would come to later. At the moment, April was startled too badly. For those bright green eyes belonged to none other than Ried duLadams, the Duchess's handmaiden. Who was watching her, April.

The other woman had a face like a pixie – crafty, perceptive – with the green eyes to match, and now those eyes were locked on April. For a long moment, April could do nothing but stare back, too caught unawares to temper her face or even control her scrambled thoughts.

And those long moments were all it took for a slow, knowing smile to cross over Ried duLadams's face.

Then she turned from gazing at April to continue her conversation with the steward before her.

April stood frozen, her heart slamming in her chest. Panicked thoughts raced through her head. What had she revealed? What had she betrayed?

But she could do nothing to correct the mistake. She could not even leave. No one could, until the Ladies had entered the castle and then they could disperse.

It seemed to take an interminable amount of time. But finally, the Ladies were done. They gathered their long skirts and walked to the Castle. Ser der Caref accompanied his wife, while Ried duLadams alongside a Knight that she was quizzing.

But before she entered the Castle, she looked over her shoulders.

Straight at April.

And smiled.

* * *

Later that day, April went to the gardens in the South side, to gather herbs for Summer fever. The supplies they kept close to the Sick room were close to exhaustion. The South garden was smaller, not as bountiful as the East garden. If April had only been out to gather herbs, she would have gone to the East. Indeed, if the errand was just to gather herbs, she could have asked a maid to do easily.

But the South garden was beneath the walls where the Duchess's chambers were. Now that Lady Lex had returned, her windows were opened and any conversation taking place in those rooms could be clearly heard in the garden, if one were trained to discern whispers from the furthest of distances.

So April bent over the plants, to all intents and purposes, hard at work harvesting, while she listened… and she heard…

"Well, this is delightful!"

April had been listening so hard to the voices from above, that she had barely acknowledged the sounds from nearby. She had half-consciously heard the approaching steps, soft on the grass. But she had assumed that whoever it was, would just walk by her.

So she was immensely, upsettingly alarmed to raise her head and stare into Ried duLadam's pixie face.

"Cristiana's apprentice, I believe?" Ried duLadams said, her voice soft and sly. "I've been intent on talking to you all day. And now," her eyes swept the garden, empty of every soul except hers and April's, "I have you all to myself."

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A/N: For everyone who reviewed, thanks a lot! Keep letting me know what you think. Reviews are my crack. Like I said - so many stories, so little time. Let me know you like it, and it'll be like rubbing the writing genie lamp. I can't grant wishes (and by wishes, I mean, the next update) if I'm not asked (by a ton of reviews). :D

* * *

tbc


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